THIS SITE HAS BEEN ARCHIVED AND CLOSED.

It’s ATP three of three – I’ve now spent more time at Minehead’s Butlins than I have at my own parents’ house in 2007. Following on from the Dirty Three-curated April edition and May’s Versus The Fans hit-after-hit bill, Portishead’s vision of the annual Nightmare Before Christmas has a lot to live up to. That said, it couldn’t possibly prove as soul-sucking and one-dimensional as Thurston Moore’s lamentable instalment of the December festival twelve months earlier, could it? Certainly the eclecticism of the bill suggested not: the headliners had attracted big names from the hip-hop world alongside some drone and metal heavyweights.

Back to the Sonic Youth guitarist momentarily: he’s here, present and correct on the (main) Pavilion Stage, on Friday evening. I’ve arrived a little later than usual, delayed further by having to drop my belongings for the weekend off at a not-so-near B&B (no on-site stay for Mike this time out; instead, blessed silence come 11pm, a sea view and the most comfortable bed I’ve had the pleasure of being intimate with for ages). Therefore the first act witnessed by ears craving that pleasurable sting and eyes salivating at the prospect of hour after hour of out-there avant-rock expression is… The Horrors. The high-fashion Londoners might seem out of their depth, writhing about the Pavilion Stage like current-sparking pokers had been rammed up their backsides, but they’re entirely capable of kicking up a true shit-storm of a cacophony. Problem: everything’s so fuzzed into distortion that distractions come easily: 2p machines yield prizes and I’m twiddling fingers ‘til Moore.

A warm reception for The Horrors – not unexpected given the open-minded nature of the regular ATP crowd, but pleasing nonetheless given their considerable profile and previous disdain directed their way from would-be indier-than-thou sorts – is followed by one bordering on discomfortingly hot for Thurston. With Steve Shelley on drums and Chris Brokaw on guitar, Moore dissects his recent Trees Outside The Academy LP with smile-spreading venom; how he makes an acoustic guitar squeal like an animal caught under a car’s wheels - like Charlie Says' Charlie, even - is beyond me. Members of The Horrors watch from the crowd, themselves enraptured with the performance. ‘Frozen Guitar’ is sublime, and come the set’s climax the familiar feeling of ATP comfort slips into place. Here I am, entertain me… by destroying my ear drums for three days straight.

To anyone who’s never been to ATP it’s tough to convey the festival’s appeal, even at events where the line-up isn’t as strong as previous curators’ attempts. There’s an atmosphere about the place – even in such odd surroundings as a garishly decorated holiday camp designed to stimulate bratty kids into wearing themselves out come seven so dad can slink off to the Sun And Moon to drink proper beer and watch Sky Sports – that just feels… nice.

So I can shrug off the fact that PJ Harvey collaborator John Parish completely fails to connect with the Centre Stage audience and stroll, instead, down to Hot Shots – one of many on-site bars – for a pint and another go at the 2p slot machine slide-slide things (two keyrings are ‘won’). Here I walk into – literally – someone who I believe to be Serge from hooligan-endorsed indie chumps Kasabian; stunned, I have to seek confirmation from DiS snapper Toby Price and Lovvers’ Henry Withers that, yes, said guitar monkey is strolling about the place. Also seen frequently over the course of the weekend is Colin Greenwood; he doesn’t show for a scheduled DJ set because, apparently, he’s utterly wasted still. Friend-of-DiS Manish Agarwal – Mojo writer and all-round good egg – fills in for the* Radiohead *man at the last minute.

Friday night is brought to a climax in Reds (essentially the third stage, if you like) by Fuck Buttons. The London-based duo – signed to the label branch of ATP of course, who will release their Street Horrrsing LP early next year – craft curtains of luscious sonic-scapes that are draped and rippled about the assembled throng with subtlety and grace. Their problem – if you deem it one at all – is that none of their material to date dares to take that final stride into territories they skirt around; it’s neither aggressive enough to trouble minds regularly beset by the bombast of acts like Wolf Eyes and Hair Police, and nor is it as beautiful and enveloping as the best work of Keith Fullerton Whitman, or Growing. Still, with pulsating potential dance-floor fillers like ‘Bright Tomorrow’ in their canon – assuming said dance-floor is the domain of denizens of the very broadest musical horizons, of course – they’re sure to be spreading joyous tinnitus throughout ’08. ‘Less they send you to sleep instead, that is, which they do my tag-along fiancée.

Strolling back through Minehead, long after midnight, it’s refreshing to see youths loitering outside late-night take-aways and not asking for a quid or threatening to cut my fat if I look at them the wrong way. We’re a long way from London, friends.

Saturday begins with shopping in the local Co-Op – saves on over-spending for sandwiches and soft drinks on site – and strolling the Minehead streets in search of a semi-decent boozer to while away an hour in. Failing to locate one this time out, I settle on the Family Pub of The Year 2005, The Hairy Dog. Awful, awful name, but a pint of Exmoor Gold and the first half of Villa against Portsmouth warms me up nicely for Pavilion-openers Oneida.

The Brooklyn boys are in fine, fine spirits, getting the early-doors crowd moving at an unusual hour – namely two in the afternoon; at most ATPs I’m still recovering in bed about now – with the knee-jerkingly brilliant ‘Up With People’. Engaging banter between songs ensures all slope away satisfied, Bobby Matador asking all and sundry to consider his band for their kids’ birthday parties. “Call us,” he shouts; if we could, we would. Less gratifying are Autolux, whose set on the Centre Stage attracts a sizeable crowd but fails to absorb this attendee. While efforts from their last LP Future Perfect sounded sweet three years ago, a discernable lack of forward momentum leaves them sounding stagnant before their time. Perhaps their next album – slated for a 2008 release, but with no date set in stone – will surprise the doubters spawned in the wake of this ATP performance.

A clash with Malcolm Middleton – the Scot plays the Pavilion Stage – sees the crowd for both Autolux and the former Arab Strap man alter midway through each act’s set; I roll up to Middleton after 20 minutes in the company of the Los Angeles trio, and just in time for ‘We’re All Going To Die’ and a bout of People Watching. Come on, we all do it: a band’s on but your eyes are flitting about the crowd, partially in hope of seeing somebody you know – a regular happening at all ATPs – and partially because, well, the festival attracts Very Good Looking Sorts. Even the weirdie-beardies are looking hawt today. Look at them all, singing along: “My face is a disease”.

_Interlude: Malcolm Middleton by Chris Alcxxk

Without wishing to turn DiS into The Daily Mail, it must be remarked that it's nice to have some actual songs amongst the rest of ATP's krautnoisespaz, and Malcolm Middleton delivers with aplomb. Managing to successfully combine wit and poignancy in every song is the rare trick that lifts this above being just any other Scottish, folky indie band, as shown in a stream of near-anthems from latest album_ A Brighter Beat. Fuck it - I love this.

Another crossing of paths with Greenwood, C – I should say something, but being an ATP festival-goer restricts your fan-boy desires; when I held a door open for Nick Cave earlier this year, I didn’t even dare utter a “That’s okay” when he thanked me – later, I find myself in the company of GZA, backed by the bounding-about Dreddy Kruger and the hotdog-queuing (minutes after leaving the stage) Killah Priest. Liquid Swords, GZA’s landmark LP of 1995, receives the Don’t Look Back treatment – start to finish, but no less riveting for the no-surprises set-list ordering. With hands aloft, ‘W’ for the Wu everywhere, the party descends on ATP a little earlier than expected – it’s barely gone five.

Glenn Branca’s tiresome, shriek-shrill instrumentals (although, perhaps, enough time he was not afforded) have me wandering the halls once more, stopping only to take in a little Hawk And A Hacksaw. Jeremy Barnes’ music is something I can enjoy in isolation, but today on the largest of three stages his arrangements are only of limited attractiveness. It’s curry night at the Sun And Moon, so fiancée and I settle down for a proper meal, off a plate and everything (our sandwiches consumed during Oneida now long forgotten). Reading are thumping Liverpool on the television; everything feels good with the world.

Portishead are playing the second of their two sets; having chosen to perform on the enclosed Centre Stage, the trip-hop legends’ crowd is split into those with black wristbands (first night) and those with silver ones (tonight). I have neither, but hell, I’m a journalist, here on a day ticket essentially – surely I’ll be alright. A hand on my chest suggests otherwise: “If you were meant to be up here you’d have a silver band.” _“What? Really… hang on…” “Move aside, please.”